Nancy Jenkins
“The sun had set when we left the museum that day, and the holidaymakers had long since departed. The wind had dropped; already a nighttime chill had begun to creep into the air. In the brief desert twilight the pyramids stood out in all their ruined majesty, dark hulks that loomed
against the last apricot-coloured g l ow in the western sky. At night the Giza plateau is a lonely place, cold and forbidding, inhabited only by a
few guards, wrapped like mummies against the night wind, and the yapping, threatening pi-dogs of Egypt.
From a time long before King Cheops this plateau had been a sacred burying ground, and even today there is about it a sense of holiness and mystery, especially in the empty silences of the night. The ancient people who built these monuments, and apparently buried their kings within, are in a way as mysterious to us as the pyramids themselves.”
―
against the last apricot-coloured g l ow in the western sky. At night the Giza plateau is a lonely place, cold and forbidding, inhabited only by a
few guards, wrapped like mummies against the night wind, and the yapping, threatening pi-dogs of Egypt.
From a time long before King Cheops this plateau had been a sacred burying ground, and even today there is about it a sense of holiness and mystery, especially in the empty silences of the night. The ancient people who built these monuments, and apparently buried their kings within, are in a way as mysterious to us as the pyramids themselves.”
―
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